


What's in a name?

by deathtosanepeople



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Gratuitous descriptions of how pretty Goran Višnjić is, Pre-Canon, Romantic Friendship, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, just a little bit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-01-14
Packaged: 2018-09-17 11:45:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9322160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathtosanepeople/pseuds/deathtosanepeople
Summary: What's in a name? Perhaps something more than an identity, more than an arbitrary label. Names hold meaning, names make us human- names can be acceptance and understanding.Based on the tags of a tumblrpostfrom TwilightDeviant #I wish someone would call him Garcia #Just once #I wish Lucy would call him Garcia #What? Huh? Who said that?





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TwilightDeviant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwilightDeviant/gifts).



> This fic is set in the future, based on the assumption that Garcia will eventually start working with the team. Thanks to TwilightDeviant for the idea and permission to use it, I hope you like the fic! :D
> 
> Hope you all enjoy!

It’s quiet in the abandoned warehouse where they now store the time machine. Grass struggles through the cracks in the old cement, soaking up the small splashes of sunshine that manage to slip through the high, fractured windows. The occasional chirp of birdsong interrupts the white noise of wide open places and unpopulated towns.  
  
Flynn sits in a folding a chair in one of those patches of sunshine, cleaning his guns. His hair is a black, shining sheaf over his frowning brow, a curtain hiding those deep, piercing eyes, more soulful than a killer’s eyes have any right to be. He lifts his head as Lucy approaches, the sun lightening and softening his features, the natural rays giving youth no cosmetic cure could ever manage.    
  
She notices his hair isn’t so much an inky black as a rich brown, deep enough to appear black unless ensconced in daylight. The eyes too, aren’t solid umber as she once believed, but are graced with green and grey, softer when not surrounded by shadows, warmer when not scored by angry slashes, but framed by long lashes and smile lines.  
  
He smiles sometimes these days. And for some reason it takes her breath away. Real smiles, small quirks of his mouth like he can’t quite help himself, real and rare. Not like before, not mocking, not bared teeth like an animal in a trap straining to escape.  
  
He smiles now, as she settles into the chair across from him, tilting his head in acknowledgement.  
  
“You clean those quite a lot,” she observes.  
  
He flashes a grin, and she longs for it as soon as it fades, wishing they would stay on his face for more than a few brief seconds.  
  
“Can’t be going off half-cocked,” he replies, raising a brow, holding up a piece of the disassembled gun.  
  
She lets out a startled snort of mirth. His humor still surprises her. He seems the last person for such jokes, yet they slip out more and more as the months go on. “Oh, God,” she laughs, and smiles into her palm. “For someone usually so serious, Garcia, you do have the most awfully corny sense of humor.”  
  
The joviality drops from his face, and he refocuses on the weapon in his hands. The screen of his hair is dividing them again in this small space they’re sharing— a circle of sunlight, two folding chairs, and a few dismantled guns.  
  
She leans forward, trying to see his expression. “Did I say something wrong?”  
  
His eyes rise to meet hers, and she shrinks back, feeling their closeness in more than the physical. “No,” he answers slowly, after a brief moment of suspended emotion. “No, I suppose you said something right.”  
  
She tilts her head slightly and frowns. “I don’t understand.”  
  
A muscle works in his in his jaw. She’s found that his emotional tells are mostly located there, in his jutting chin and demonstrative mouth.  
  
“It’s been awhile… since anyone has bothered with my first name.”  
  
That gives her pause. Her brow furrows in thought, recalling conversations of the past, searching for a time where she’d called him anything but Flynn, or “you bastard”. She worries her lip under, a spark of chagrin buzzing down her spine. “I suppose you’re right. I didn’t realize.”  
  
He shrugs, intentionally nonchalant. “A natural distancing tactic. Referring to someone by their last name, the title they’ve been given, like terrorist,” his voice goes rough over the word, that pugnacious sneer making an appearance, “makes them less of a person, more of a target.”  
  
“I… I didn’t think of it that way,” she says honestly.  
  
The corner of his mouth quirks slightly. “No. You wouldn’t.”  
  
Her eyes narrow, studying him. She thinks that was a compliment. He’s reassembling one of the guns, finished with the individual parts, a perfectly passive look on his face. She becomes so distracted by the skilled, smooth movements of his hands she nearly forgets what they are speaking of.  
  
She shakes her head, rattling loose the question she meant to ask. “Do you… I mean, would you prefer your first name?”  
  
He stands, lips seemingly pursed in consideration, moving to replace the gun in the case sitting on the table behind her.  
  
She hears the _shush_ of the weapon sliding into the foam, the lid clicking shut, the snap of the clasps on the front. The soft thud of his footsteps move towards her, but he pauses behind her chair. She feels when he leans over her, an uneasy but electric tingling crawling up her neck.  
  
“Only from you,” he finally replies, voice coarse, low, and oh so very close.  
  
She suppresses a shudder, pressing her lips into a wry line. “And why is that?”  
  
He comes round front of her, settling back into his chair, a leg propping up on his knee, hands folded in his lap. He leans back, taking his time, watching to see if perhaps she will squirm under his scrutiny.  
  
She doesn’t.  
  
Somehow that makes his grin break forth. He shrugs again, the movement made elegant by the rise of his strong shoulders. “Maybe you’re special.”  
  
“Well, yes,” she says, faux haughty, and lets loose a giggle before she can continue.  
  
His eyebrows travel up his forehead, a charming look of forbearance.  
  
She halts her laughter, ducking her head, her hair swinging round her face. “Okay, no, seriously, why just me?”  
  
“Simple.” He bends forward, spreading his hands. “I feel like I know you.”  
  
A wash of discomfort falls over her, as it always does when the journal is mentioned. “Because you’ve read my journal. What is, supposedly, my journal.”  
  
He ignores her following jab, nodding his head to the previous statement. “Yes. There was a lot more than just instructions in that book. Private thoughts and musings, secrets and confessions— I would say I know you better than most people you are close to.”  
  
He seems to sense her unease. “I know it makes you uncomfortable, but I promise you, the journal was not something I took. It was given to me.”  
  
“In some ways that makes it worse,” she mutters, too quiet for him to hear. Then, louder, raising her eyes challengingly. “Prove that you know me. Tell me something only I would say, nothing that would reveal my future, but something you’d have to know me intimately to be aware of. You’ve only ever let me read pieces of mad ramblings about the past, never anything that convinces me those are my thoughts.”  
  
He settles in the chair, a contemplative look on his face.  
  
She can tell the instant he thinks of something, a lazy smirk stretching across his lips.  
  
“You hate the term “young lady”. You wrote that it, “… is simply a constraint wielded by men in positions of power, to remind you that one, your youth makes your opinion significantly less important, and two, that, in being a woman, you are significantly less useful or valuable. I find that it is only ever used when reminding a young woman of her place, which is most certainly not anywhere above a man.”  
  
She tilts her chin up, rolling her eyes in disbelief. “Ok, while that sounds exactly like something I would say, and yes, I do hold that opinion, why was I talking about that, and why on earth do you remember it so exactly?”  
  
“You were describing the space station, and then went on a rather long tangent about a “paunchy, bastard of a little man” who had the audacity to ask you for coffee not once, but twice.”  
  
She wheezes, folding nearly in half. “Oh, god, did I really?”  
  
“Yes,” his tone is almost… fond? “I thought it quite amusing.” It settles into seriousness over his next words. “As for why I remember it so well…”  
  
The pause is long and heavy, his gaze focused beyond her.  
  
“You have been the only voice, besides my own, inside my head for a while now. I needed something to fill the space after…” He swallows deeply, eyelids flickering. “…After I lost them. And that was where your little book came in. It was more than a guide, it was something to stave off the madness rampant in my own mind. I read it over and over, till I had most of it memorized.” His gaze travels back, pinning her with those emotional eyes. “I suppose, in more than one way, you could say it saved me. It gave me purpose, it kept me sane. Without it, I surely would not be here now.”  
  
“Jury’s still out on whether or not you’re sane,” she comments, then backpedals as he stiffens, his face going cold. “But, I’m glad that you’re here.”  
  
His skepticism is clear.  
  
“Honestly,” she says softly. “I’m glad it helped you, Garcia, even if I’m not really fond of the idea of it in general.”  
  
He searches her face for sincerity, and, seeming to find satisfaction, he nods curtly. “Thank you. It is good… to feel wanted.”  
  
They sit together long into the afternoon, their golden pool of sunlight turning tangerine as the sky shifts to sunset.  
  
She watches him clean his weapons, tinker with a scope, soothing, complicated motions made simple by skill. He makes her laugh with old stories of the NSA before it all went to hell, she makes him smile with her classroom anecdotes and history jokes.  
  
He disarms her completely. He’s fascinating, witty, with a vast store of knowledge, and she struggles to remember that the pleasant man before her is an unrepentant killer, who would kill again for his mission.  
  
The titles: killer, terrorist, bastard— they will not fit him today, sliding from his attractive visage, deflected by his wholly likable mouth and shining eyes.  
  
Perhaps, for today, he can be more than just Flynn.  
  
Today, he is only Garcia. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you want to Yell™ with me over on tumblr about Garcy, or how pretty Goran Višnjić is, or maybe give me some Garcy prompts, my tumblr is [katieamnesiaandrews](http://katieamnesiaandrews.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Reviews and constructive criticism are always appreciated!


End file.
